


Cover of Rolling Stone

by jericho



Category: Backstreet Boys
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jericho/pseuds/jericho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bad review draws mixed reactions from the not-so-happy couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cover of Rolling Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2000

Okay, so the article wasn't that bad. It had called him "just the nicest guy, the peacemaker, the softest one who is most easily hurt." Except for the last one, which Howie knew was a compliment but still made him burn with anti-machismo shame, it could have been a lot worse. But it was the review near the back, on page 170, that really stung. It was that review on page 170 that prevented him from sending five copies to his mother, like the song said. 

He sat cross legged on the bed in his hotel room to read it. He flicked on the light. Opened a fresh can of Coke and set it on the table next to him. Settled in and got prepared. It was a pretty good picture of him on the cover. He would have read the article first, but the article was longer. The review was a good bite-sized chunk. 

But after the review, it didn't matter what the article said. 

"On its third American album, the quintet attempts to bolster its substantial serenading rep by teaming up with Babyface, covering Canadian crooner Dan Hill and writing its own cliche-driven slush." 

Cliche-driven slush. His slush. His "How Did I Fall In Love With You," which he'd been so proud of when he finished it that he raced to the phone to call Kevin about it. And when Kevin picked up, Howie's words had fumbled together and tripped over themselves. 

Cliche-driven slush. 

Howie learned long ago that when you first read something bad, it doesn't matter what the words in between the insults are. The reviewer could have said "Howie Dorough's vocals are strong," which would never happen, but on his first read, all that would roll over and over in his head was "cliche-driven slush." 

And it got worse. 

"Transcending their pop originals with schlock too dull for easy-listening or country radio is nothing for Boys to brag about." Another phrase to tumble around in his head. A phrase one sentence after they mentioned his song. 

He wasn't angry enough to throw the magazine toward the end of the bed. But he turned it over gently, careful not to fold the pages because he was, after all, on the cover. He sighed deeply, putting his head in his hands, his hair stringing around his fingers. Schlock. 

He ran a finger under each eye to stop the moisture. The Backstreet Boys had interviewers who showed up just to mock them, weaving sarcasm into their questions like the group was too stupid to notice. He'd seen anti Backstreet Boys web sites that made fun of every part of his body and every note he sang. He should have learned by now not to let it bother him. 

The softest one. The most easily hurt. He hadn't read that part yet, but those thoughts always strummed through his mind. 

He inhaled deeply and turned the magazine over again, picking up where he'd left off. The second column of text. Okay, the next part wasn't bad. It talked about a "slew of forceful jams," and then "drama-crazed harmonies." The worst was over. 

And then, onto the article. 

He stared at the pictures for a long time, not at his own image but at how good his band mates looked. Especially Nick, which wasn't news to anyone. In the picture of them with the naked women, Nick stood behind Howie and AJ, hands together like he was praying, a jacket draped over his shoulders. Even though he wore the same pseudo sexy expression he usually did in photos, his eyes portrayed something deeper. Some people thought of it as borderline cruelty. Howie thought of it as cynicism. A toughness Howie didn't have and would never have, no matter how long he toured or was interviewed by sarcastic reporters. He would never get it, because he was Howie and Nick was Nick. 

He finished the article and pushed the magazine aside, sliding back into a laying position and stretching. What do you after you read a review like that? Go out for a hamburger? Call your folks? Hang out with your buddies? 

No, Howie figured. You lay there and stare at the ceiling for awhile, debating over and over about whether there was any merit to the comments, wondering until you make yourself crazy. 

He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until Nick stood above him, shaking his shoulder. "You can't wait for me without falling asleep?" he asked, but his tone was light. 

Howie smiled a little and rubbed his eyes, struggling into a sitting position. "I'm awake. I'm awake." 

"Good." 

And then Howie felt Nick's lips fasten to his neck, his hands rough as they untucked Howie's shirt from his jeans, his shoulders already moving forward to push Howie onto his back. 

"Wait," Howie mumbled, struggling to sit back up. His hand found Nick's shoulder and pushed him a little. 

"What? What's the matter?" 

"I just...have a lot on my mind." Howie smoothed his hair self consciously, hoping there was no redness in his eyes. 

"I thought you said we could do this whenever I wanted to," Nick said. 

"We can. It's just...." Howie searched his mind for an explanation, but the truth was that he didn't have one. 

Nick leaned across Howie's legs and grabbed the magazine. "Is it this fucking article?" Howie realized that Nick wasn't angry at him. He was angry at whatever made Howie feel this way. And that felt good, sort of. 

But Howie lied anyway. "No." 

Nick threw the magazine over his shoulder. The paper fluttered through the air like a frantic bird and landed in the middle of the floor. 

There was a long moment of silence. Howie picked at his fingernails, not looking up. He was tired of being the one most easily hurt. Ashamed. Just once he wanted to be the leader like Kevin or the jaded one like Nick. Someone other than Sweet Howie D. 

He glanced quickly at Nick and saw that Nick's face had softened. Nick ran his hand across Howie's cheek and Howie closed his eyes, moving his face toward the warmth like a kitten. 

"Don't worry," Nick said softly. It was one of the few things Nick ever said softly. Strong, handsome Nick, looking more and more like a football player every day. 

"I'm not," Howie said, and he could hear his own lie. 

"You are. You always worry." 

"I'm not," Howie said, no more convincing the second time. 

Nick crawled over Howie's legs, landing on his butt on the other side. Howie watched him as he slid into a laying position, spreading his arms. It wasn't until Nick patted his chest that Howie figured out what he was supposed to do. 

He laid down on his side and moved closer to Nick, until his head was on Nick's chest. He wished it was on the side where he could hear Nick's heartbeat, but he wasn't going to complain. He felt Nick's heavy hand rest on his shoulder, his fingers rub Howie's arm a little, and in unison they sighed. Nick was wearing a green sweatshirt, probably cotton, and it felt good against Howie's cheek. 

Howie breathed deeply, closing his eyes, loving like he always did just being near the warmth of another person. Especially Nick. And laying there like that, it wasn't so bad being the softest one. The one who was just the nicest guy. The peacemaker. 

  



End file.
